


the last laugh

by hiraethia



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Getting Closure, Grieving, M/M, Moving On, Past Child Abuse, this is just really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 03:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14227824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiraethia/pseuds/hiraethia
Summary: on mary hatford's birthday, stuart sends neil a package.'i thought you might like it,' read the note.





	the last laugh

**Author's Note:**

> ok i was doodling and i tried to draw mary and stuart when they were young which just spiraled into this sadness, so i just threw this together. i rly rly hope it isn't ooc eeep but i really wanted to explore neil's relationship w his mother and stuart in here <3
> 
> child abuse is mentioned but only vaguely, with neil's past and all

Mary Hatford's birthday was always a quiet affair. It was a moment of silence before darting around the corner again, it was taking a shot of whiskey in the safety of the dark, it was giving a soundless toast with bruised and bandaged fingers. There were no balloons, confetti, or birthday cakes. There were stitches, stars, and empty highway cars.

Neil woke up on her birthday feeling like someone had carved his chest out with a knife.

It wasn't usual for him to grieve for his mother. He liked to think that he'd gotten it all out at her bonfire funeral, staring into the flames as they devoured that old hijacked car and feeling the weight of the world on his lone shoulders. He liked to think that he'd gotten it all out at the dirty motel bathroom, violently shaking while silent tears dripped onto the tiled floor.

But now that he had the time to mourn, he had no choice but to mourn.

He quietly got out of bed, one hand absently rubbing the gunshot scar on his chest, as he headed to the kitchen. Rummaging around in the cabinets, Neil eventually came across a half-finished bottle of whiskey that belonged to Kevin. He poured himself a glass, not bothering to put it back, and collapsed into the bean bag.

His heart felt too raw for a cigarette. Even the whiskey tasted like poison as he tossed it back. All the while, the ugly hollowness in his chest kept growing bigger and bigger, until it felt like it was consuming his entire body.

 _If you’re feeling pain, then you know you’re still alive,_ his mother would’ve said. But Neil wondered when in their drive down the Californian coast Mary knew this pain didn’t mean she was alive anymore — this pain was a death sentence.

He drank the whiskey until it was empty, and then poured another glass. When he finished that glass, he eventually just took the whole bottle. Andrew found him there a few hours later, staring blankly into the distance with a nearly finished bottle of liquor in a white-knuckled grip.

The bean bag made a crunching noise when Andrew sat down next to him.

“You don’t drink,” Andrew said quietly, a fact. An expired one.

Neil lolled his head over, the alcohol making his brain fuzzy and heavy. It did nothing to numb his pain, but he was light-headed enough that it offered an unpleasant distraction.

“No,” he slurred, suddenly feeling sick. He didn’t think he needed to throw up, just lie in bed and never get up. “I — don’t like it.” A hiccup tore through his chest.

Andrew pried his fingers open and took the bottle, staring flatly at the bottom, before tossing it aside. He moved closer to Neil, tilting his chin up with surprisingly gentle fingers.

“What is it?” he asked lowly.

Neil swallowed with difficulty. Andrew’s face kept blurring in and out, unfocusing and then focusing again, like a hallucination. But he reached out tentatively and his fingers brushed against Andrew’s soft, freshly washed hair, and he knew Andrew was there. Solid and strong enough to hold Neil and his myriad of issues up.

It took a few minutes to think of the proper words, and the alcohol didn’t help. Neil didn’t know how to sugarcoat things, but Andrew had always appreciated a blunt, cold truth anyways. So he let the words slip out of his mouth, like blood trickling from his lips.

“It’s my mother’s birthday,” he said weakly.

Andrew stiffened. Hazel eyes darkened, and Neil squirmed uncomfortably. He knew Andrew’s feelings about his mother, the way he clenched his fists whenever Neil told him about Mary’s harsh punishments and harsher words. He knew Andrew didn’t understand, couldn’t understand, that Neil had loved Mary Hatford all the same.

He loved her, but it wasn’t enough to save her.

A warm, calloused hand on his cheek jolted Neil back to reality. He swallowed harshly when Andrew leaned down, his fingers running through Neil’s curls. Eventually, Andrew’s grip tightened just enough to pull Neil against his chest.

“Tell me what you need,” he murmured.

Miserably, Neil touched his chest. He expected his hand to come away with blood. It didn’t.

He pressed his face against Andrew’s shoulder, inhaling shakily. There it was, the lingering but faint scent of smoke.

"Stay here." And Andrew stayed.

They laid there on the floor for minutes, maybe hours. “I’m think I’m breaking,” Neil eventually whispered harshly, a graveyard confession. _I’m bleeding out._

The heavy weight of Andrew’s hand settled on the back of his neck. “You are not broken,” he said simply, poem yet to be finished. _I’ll burn the world for you until you stop._

Neil squeezed his eyes shut. He felt a light pressure on his forehead. For a fleeting, terrifying moment, he couldn’t tell if it was his mother or Andrew.

\--

The Foxes seemed have figured out what day it was. Neil didn't know how. Maybe Wymack told them ahead of time, or maybe even Andrew. Regardless, he couldn't be bothered to try and figure it out, not when everything felt so raw and numb at the same time.

Wymack took one look at him before promptly benching him for the remainder of practice. Dan's face fell when Neil didn't try to protest, only forcing himself to walk over to the bench by the court walls and sit down, his gear an unforgiving weight in his lap. He could feel his team's gazes on him as he stared blankly into space while he fiddled with the straps of his helmet.

Bitterly, he thought about how his mother would've reacted to his state right now: hands yanking at his hair, fists breaking his skin, until he had no choice but to get up and keep going.

Eventually the Foxes' tense silence broke into a thin murmur as they changed out and headed for the court. Neil looked up when Andrew sat down next to him, his gear not on either.

"Aren't you practicing?" Neil asked wearily.

"No," Andrew replied, like it was that simple.

Neil hummed quietly, before turning away. The silence between them was punctuated by the squeaks of shoes against the court floor, by shouts calling for passes, and occasional cheers whenever a good goal was scored. Neil could hear Kevin and Dan's voices rising above the rest of the team, giving out orders and advice. Neil's throat tightened when he remembered that he was the vice-captain, and he wasn't even able to get over his mother who had been dead for three years. 

As if sensing his thoughts, Andrew reached out and placed his hand on Neil's nape. Thumb rubbing soothing circles, Andrew said, "Stop it."

"I'm so tired of this," Neil sighed. He was tired of this weight, tired of this overdue grief. He was tired of existing when his mother should've been at his side as well, had things gone right. For once he wished he could return to being nothing.

Andrew squeezed his neck, bending forward into Neil's vision. "It will pass," he said firmly.

Humming absently again, Neil rubbed the soles of his shoes against the floor and leaned into Andrew's shoulder. 

Wymack called an end to practice two hours later. The Foxes headed for the locker room, but Matt broke away from the rest of them. He had a small but earnest smile on his face, hesitating slightly when Andrew cast a glare in his direction.

"Coach told us not to bother you today," he said, "but if we're here if you want to talk." 

Neil forced a smile onto his face, the expression twitching listlessly on his lips. "Thanks, Matt."

He reached out and ruffled Neil's hair, before retreating to the locker room with the others. Wymack took his place, his arms crossed, a pensive expression on his face.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asked after a minute. 

"Yeah," Neil murmured. 

"Don't bother coming to evening practice," Wymack said gruffly. "But if you do I have games that you can watch and take notes on."

"I can play," he said halfheartedly. "I won't be as hungover."

"I'm not going to make you play like this." Wymack cut him off. "I'm letting Andrew off too because God knows what stupid things you'll get up to by yourself. Take a break, do whatever you need to do so that you can be on your game tomorrow."

Neil muttered, "Okay," as Andrew stood up, helping him to his feet as well. Wymack glared at him until he was satisfied with whatever he saw, and then turned on his heel to head to his office. Andrew led Neil into the locker room, where they were greeted with only the original Foxes, the freshmen gone. 

Dan was the first to step up, carefully wrapping Neil in a fierce hug. He froze, his throat tightening because her arms felt too strong and too familiar. But when he shut his eyes and breathed in, he could smell the shampoo that Dan always used, and Matt's cologne. 

(Mary hadn't had a scent).

Eventually Neil was enveloped in a careful yet warm embrace from everyone, excluding Aaron and Kevin. They stood off to the side with Andrew, but when Neil finally pulled away from them and looked back, there was no trace of animosity or contempt on either of their faces. Kevin only told him to drink lots of water, while Aaron nodded slightly.

For the first time all day, Neil thought he could breathe.

\-- 

It was later that evening that Wymack came to find Neil in the foyer. He'd opted to come to practice anyways, and was saddled with watching Breckenridge's games last season and taking notes on the new lineup. Andrew was next to him, fiddling with his phone.

"Josten."

He looked up at Wymack's voice, raising his eyebrows when he noticed the small package in his hands. "What's that?"

"Don't know," Wymack said, before tossing it to Neil. He managed to catch it thanks to his quick reflexes, and was startled by how light it was. "Someone wanted me to deliver it to you on your uncle's behalf."

"Oh." Suddenly the package felt much heavier. Neil stared at it, before slowly turning it over. There was no writing on it, only a small box covered in plain brown wrapping paper. 

Andrew reached over and shut the laptop, tossing it aside. "We're going back to the dorm," he said.

"Andrew - "

"Neil." His tone left no room for arguments.

Mumbling a goodbye to Wymack, Neil followed Andrew back to Fox Tower. The car ride there was silent other than the obnoxious rap music blaring from the radio station Nicky had set it to.

After locking themselves in the dorm room, Neil tentatively set the package on the table. He glanced at Andrew, who was fiddling with his arm bands. With a pang, Neil realized Andrew hadn’t smoked all day.

Vaguely guilty, he turned his gaze back to the box. It left him feeling squeamish. 

“Why’d you make us come back here?” he wondered out loud, leaning against the table and staring at the package like he could somehow see through it.

“I don’t trust your reaction,” was all Andrew said, but Neil knew what he really meant.

_If it's bad, I don't want the others seeing._

Neil smiled listlessly as Andrew approached. "Yes or no?" he asked softly.

"Yes," Neil whispered, and Andrew cupped his face. He stared at Neil hard for a few moments, the dimness of the kitchen casting a single golden strip of light through his hazel eyes. Something swelled inside Neil's chest, bursting over his ribcage and rising up his throat, and he shut his eyes because he was _afraid._ Afraid of his own brokenness, afraid of what Andrew would think of it (he knew, he _knew_ Andrew accepted him - but that didn't stop him from fearing), afraid of the effects his mother still had on him, long after her death.

Then Andrew's lips were on his, kissing not harshly, but gently. Honey and sweetness in a way that shouldn't have belonged on someone as sharp-edged as Andrew, but did anyways. Neil allowed himself to get lost in Andrew's kiss, before he was pulling away too soon.

"Open it," he said quietly, though his hand slipped down Neil's arm and clasped around his wrist. 

They sat down at the table, Andrew scooting the chair over so that their thighs were close enough to press together. Neil took a deep breath, picking up the package, and allowing the warmth of Andrew's leg against his seep into his body. 

Then, with trembling fingers, he carefully tore open the wrapping paper. Inside it was a small black box, with no writing on it at all. Hesitance held Neil's hands back from opening the lid. 

A terrible cocktail of numbed curiosity, muted grief, and aching fear churned inside his stomach. He wanted to know what Stuart had sent him, especially on Mary's birthday, but at the same time he didn't know if it'd serve as his breaking point or not. 

The entire day it had felt like he'd been clinging to his own completeness with broken fingers, and he didn't want to fall - not now.

But he reached out anyways, opening up the lid and setting it aside. 

Nestled inside the otherwise empty box was a piece of paper, slightly wrinkled but still well-preserved. Neil picked it up upon noticing the familiar scrawl across the back in ink.

**Neil,**

**Found this the other day while cleaning house. I thought you might like it.**

**-S**

Andrew's hand settled on Neil's knee, which he realized belatedly was bobbing up and down. He took another deep breath, sharp as it cut through his lungs, and turned the paper over.

He didn't quite know what he was expecting, but he definitely wasn't expecting a photo, much less a photo of a young Mary and Stuart Hatford. 

A photo of them smiling, _laughing_ , captured in the middle of a genuine moment, of something that could never be replicated again.

Neil stared at his mother. She was virtually unrecognizable. Her face was rounder, her eyes squinting as she smiled, her hair glossy and neatly combed as it fell over her shoulders. Next to her Stuart was hunched over, his hair trimmed in a sleek undercut that made him look years younger. His eyes were shut and his mouth wide open in silent laughter. Then Neil looked back at his mother and - 

Sharp grief tore through him again, but it was pain he didn't recognize, one that he'd never felt before. It was the soft, bloody snowfall agony that came when you walk into a childhood home you didn't remember living in. It was the gunshot wound that fizzled out into a whole-body ache, the bitter bite and subsequent kiss of nostalgia as you opened the door and looked around at the furniture; everything was perfectly preserved, untouched, but coated with dust - 

Never to be lived in again.

He didn't realize how tightly he'd been holding the picture or how tense he'd become until Andrew rested his hand on Neil's, taking the now crumpled photo out of his trembling fingers. 

"Breathe, Abram," he said, putting the photo away face-down.

He squeezed his eyes shut, a sick gasp welling up in his lungs. It almost sounded like a strangled sob.

"She had dimples," he whispered harshly. 

Andrew put his hand on the back his neck, pressing down. " _Breathe._ "

"I didn't - I didn't know she had - " Neil cut himself off, unable to make himself finish the sentence. 

There was something eerie about looking at someone's last laugh, someone's last moment, years after it had occurred. It was ghostly, an image more haunting than an autopsy or crime scene. Remembrance for something that no one believed ever happened.

(He'd lived with his mother for years, and never once had she smiled, let alone big enough to reveal the two dimples in her cheeks). 

_It's your fault, it's your fault, it's your fault_ he kept telling himself - 

"Stop that. It wasn't your fault," Andrew said sharply, and only then did Neil realize he'd been mumbling out loud. He inhaled desperately, and told himself he wouldn't cry or grieve or deliver a fucking eulogy two years too late - 

Because Mary Hatford had died long before Neil was born, with the moment she had her last laugh.

And there wasn't a thing Neil could fucking do about it.

Andrew held him close, not an embrace, but a way to shield him from the world as he fell apart. He held him there until he stopped shaking, he held him there until he finally figured out how to breathe again. Bleakly, Neil silently thanked Andrew for bringing him up to the dorm; he didn't know if he'd be able to live with himself if the Foxes saw him at this point. He wasn't ready for such vulnerability just yet.

Eventually the combination of his lingering hangover and his ever-present grief drained the rest of his energy. Andrew let Neil lean heavily against him, occasionally pressing his lips against his head. It wasn't a kiss, but it was close.

"Are you going to sleep?" he asked, his deep voice rumbling in his chest.

Neil wearily shook his head. "What time is it?"

"Almost an hour passed. It's 9."

"I need to - I need to call him."

"Your uncle?"

He nodded, before forcing himself to sit up. Andrew adjusted himself, reaching out and grabbing his phone. He watched as Neil unsteadily dialed Stuart's number in, holding it up to his ear as the line rang.

He knew his uncle wouldn't have sent him the picture without a good reason - thinking that Neil would appreciate it simply wasn't good enough. The photo left a gaping wound inside Neil's chest, and he wouldn't be able to sleep soundly until he got some form of closure.

“Neil.” Stuart’s voice filtered through the phone, jolting Neil from his reverie.

He swallowed harshly, ignoring the sudden tremble in his fingers. Andrew was an unmoving weight at his side, bumping his shoulder against Neil’s when he stayed quiet for too long.

“Neil?”

“Uncle Stuart,” he managed to say, taking a deep breath and settling back against Andrew’s side. He wound an arm around Neil’s side after getting a consenting nod, his thumb running careful circles against his side.

“I assume you got the package.”

“Yeah.” Neil turned the photo in his hand over, reading through Stuart’s messily scrawled note again. “Where - where’d you find it?”

“The house was getting far too cluttered for my tastes,” Stuart said. “I found it in my old room. I have no use for it anymore, but I thought you’d get a kick out of it.”

A hollow laugh burst from Neil. “I - yeah.”

“Breathe, Abram,” Andrew reminded him, his breath brushing over Neil’s ear.

He shut his eyes, forcing himself to count to ten. Stuart waited patiently on the other end, and occasionally Neil would hear the sound of a keyboard typing. He finally felt together enough after a few minutes to ask, “When was it?”

The typing stopped. Stuart hummed quietly as he thought. “Ah. That was a long while ago, Neil. We were both teenagers. Father was trying to sit us down for a photo thing, you know. Something that if people questioned our normalcy, per se, we could show them the picture and say: ‘Look at our happy children,’ yeah?”

“Yeah,” Neil murmured.

“We had a difficult time with all the poses the photographer wanted us to do. Father was getting real bloody pissed at us, pacing around and everything. The bloody git ended up tripping over the rug and falling on his arse. Mary and I had a good laugh out of it.”

Neil remained quiet, couldn’t talk. Somehow that story made everything ten times more painful. He felt sick again as he imagined his mother, youthful and _safe_ , laughing hard enough that her dimples shone as her father tripped over himself.

Stuart seemed to tell the silence had changed. There was the noise of a chair scraping, and a sigh.

“Look, kid,” he said quietly. “Mary made stupid decisions. She thought she could handle herself, was desperate to prove it, even. I knew she could - hell, we all did - but you know how bloody stubborn she gets. She was blinded by her own tunnel vision in the end. None of it was your fault.”

“She never smiled once,” Neil whispered. He was afraid if he talked any louder he would break. “Not since I was born.”

“That has nothing to do with anything. You aren’t responsible for the decisions she made before you were born, Neil. You didn’t choose Wesninski.”

He flinched at the mention of his old surname, and Andrew tightened his grip around his waist. Stuart seemed to realize his mistake, inhaling deeply and clearing his throat.

"Let me tell you something, Neil Abram Josten," he said, adding deliberate emphasize on his name. It was twisted differently with Stuart's accent. "Marrying that bastard may have been Mary's worst mistake, but choosing to protect you? Choosing to drop everything so that you could have a chance? That was sure as hell not a mistake. And don't you dare think that I blame you for what happened to her in the end. Unless you were the one who broke her insides with your own hands, I will not blame you.

"I know what she did to you. I don't ever want you to excuse her for it. I know things must be so fucked in your head when it comes to her, and that you loved her and you hated her. I did too. I felt the same way. So if it brings you any closure at all, just know that - Mary was happy once. It's why I sent you that picture, because you deserve to know that at the very least. And in the worst dead-end situation she ever could have been in, she chose you. What's done is done, yeah?

"Keep the picture, burn the picture, stab the picture, I don't care. You just move on, however long it takes, and you prosper. Sound good?"

It took a long minute for Neil to finally make his voice work again. Sinking against Andrew, he nodded even though Stuart wouldn't see. "Okay."

"Call me if you need anything," Stuart said warmly (at least, warm enough for someone like Stuart). "Even if I don't answer right away, leave a damn message."

"Okay," Neil said again, quietly.

"Alright. I'll leave you with Andrew, then."

"Thank you, Stuart." The words weren't enough to erase years of pain and blood, but they were enough for a cleaner start.

There was a pause, before a softer sigh. "Good night, kid."

He hung up, dropping the phone in his lap and putting his face in his hands. Andrew let him sit there for a while, before reaching out and putting the photo back in the box. 

"It's over," he said, wrapping both arms around Neil and pulling him flush against his chest. 

"Yeah," Neil said weakly. He couldn't recognize his own voice; it sounded too strained and high.

"Look at me." Calloused fingers touched Neil's chin, turning his head gently upward. Neil forced his eyes open, meeting Andrew's calm hazel irises. Even now, when it felt like everything around him was crashing down, Andrew was already piecing him back together. 

"You are more than she ever could have hoped you would be," he said, quietly and softly like drizzle. Neil smothered a sad noise against Andrew’s shoulder. He pressed his head against Andrew’s chest and listened to his cherry blossom heart.

Thump-thump.

You’re-safe.

I’m-here.

_Al-ways._

Stuart's words were the placeholder bandages, cleaning up grief’s messiest wounds, and Andrew was the needle and the thread stitching him back together.

A hand brushed through his hair, and some of the anguish in Neil’s chest settled. The snow inside him turned pink - not from blood, but from the rising sun.

 _You keep going, Abram._ His mother’s voice echoed through his head one more time, and with Andrew’s fingers in his hair and Stuart’s gift a few feet away from them, Neil knew he would.

\---

 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3 comments/kudos are appreciated


End file.
